It Needed Saying
by who is sabrina
Summary: The ways in which Mr. Peabody expresses his love for Sherman. An exploration in two parts. Disclaimer: I don't own "Mr. Peabody and Sherman".
1. Part I: Mr Peabody

Mr. Peabody had always been of the mind that love could be expressed in ways other than the simple "I love you". It could be expressed through actions, through physical communication, and through thoughtful gifts. Even just taking the time to be there was enough to show that you cared. This firm belief, of course, only strengthened the idea that "I love you" simply didn't need to be said. Besides, "I love you" was such a… _sentimental_ term. Not that he had anything against sentiment, mind you. But the words evoked such pure, raw emotion - emotion that, if he was to be honest, the genius was not entirely comfortable with. Such emotion had no logic to it at all; it went against all the facts and figures and fundamentals that Mr. Peabody had spent his whole life adhering to. And so, he had decided, those three words did not need to be said.

And why should they? His love for Sherman was obvious enough, he had concluded time and time again. The way he tucked the boy in at bedtime. The way he taught him all he knew. Even the way he had fought for Sherman in the first place, in court. All of those things conveyed his love quite adequately.

And on top of all that, being a dog and being a father had come together to make him fiercely protective. Sherman would _not_ be hurt on his watch. And woe to the person who dared to lay so much as a finger on the eager little redhead.

So when Mr. Peabody had given an excited and distracted Sherman a shiny silver dog whistle, he had seen it as just another demonstration of his love. "Let that little keepsake be a reminder to you," he had said kindly, "that no matter what challenges you face, no matter how far away I might seem…" But he had been interrupted suddenly as Sherman had called out an energetic good-bye from the top of the stairs. He watched as the young boy turned and entered the school, the enormous doors swinging shut behind him. "I'm with you," he finished sadly. And he drove away, towards home, disappointed, but aware all the while of the short attention span of seven-year-olds (_Seven and a half!_ a proud, rather Sherman-sounding voice reminded him). But even though his son had not heard his heartfelt words, he _did_ have the whistle, and Mr. Peabody thought that that was enough.

He hadn't considered what Sherman thought.

Not until it was almost too late. Not until he was being hauled forcefully away from his frantic son, who was doing some fast talking, using these few critical moments to plead Mr. Peabody's case. Even as the boy was losing his father, he had the determination and the smarts to speak up, get everyone's attention. Not raising his voice, but improving his argument. Just as the dog had taught him. Mr. Peabody would have swelled with pride, but as it was, his full attention had been on Sherman, hanging on to his every word.

"The only mistake Mr. Peabody ever made…" he began, and his eyebrows knit together in the midst of a painful realization, "was _me_."

Sherman's voice had been confident, unwavering, and it cut Mr. Peabody to the core. He wasn't even sure what he had said after that - probably his son's name - but he would never, as long as he lived, forget that feeling. The crushing, heart-wrenching sorrow that had seized his whole being as he realized that his son - the boy he loved more than anything, more than life itself - felt that he was a mistake. A _mistake_. It killed him. The canine genius had wanted nothing more than to fix that painfully incorrect idea in Sherman's head. But as it happened, they had fixed the space-time continuum instead. But even a chaotic, dangerous night like that one would not deter Mr. Peabody. He was going to fix this.

And so, the next morning, when Sherman had started to run off toward the school, the dog had called him back.

"Sherman, wait."

"Yes, Mr. Peabody?" Sherman responded casually, expression happy and carefree. Unaware of the gravity of the situation.

"I…" Mr. Peabody began, hesitant. But Sherman's haunting words from the night before returned to him, and steeled his resolve. _Here it goes._ It was time. "I love you, Sherman."

And for an instant, surprise - _pleasant_ surprise - was written all over Sherman's face. And in the next second, the surprise melted into one of Sherman's wide, wide smiles, eyebrows still raised, and his whole expression conveyed awe. Awe that his father loved him. Awe that he had finally said it. Then a familiar mischievous spark filled his eyes.

"I have a deep regard for you as well, Mr. Peabody," he quipped. An exact reversal of their usual words at bedtime. Mr. Peabody felt like laughing and crying all at once, and settled on a fond smile. His son ran towards him then, and launched himself into his father's arms. And Mr. Peabody hugged him tightly back, a great warmth spreading through his body, a rush of affection nearly bringing tears to his eyes. And in that moment, ready to burst in happiness, he knew without a doubt that he had been wrong before, about "I love you".

Sometimes it needed saying.


	2. Part II: Sherman

"I… I love you, Sherman," Mr. Peabody had said. And the first thing Sherman felt was surprise. After that, it was happiness - pure, sheer, unadulterated exuberance.

"I have a deep regard for you as well, Mr. Peabody," he had said, grinning, and then they had hugged like they hadn't in a long time.

After that, he noticed that Mr. Peabody started saying "I love you" a lot more. At night, when he tucked him into bed. At the steps of the school, when he saw him off for the day. Sometimes even in the morning when he stumbled, yawning and pajama-clad, into the kitchen for breakfast.

And as much as he loved hearing it, Sherman found, to his slight surprise, that more often than not, he didn't need to hear it. After Mr. Peabody had said it once, Sherman could hear him say it again and again, in the things that he did everyday. Mr. Peabody didn't say it aloud, but when he reached a paw over and ever-so-gently pushed his son's hair out of his face, Sherman heard _I love you_. When the dog looked quickly and attentively in his direction when he tripped and fell, keen eyes immediately checking him over, Sherman heard _I love you_. And when he woke up to an extra blanket on top of him that had not been there at bedtime the night before, he heard it then, too.

And of course, there was the time Sherman had tripped at school (nothing unusual there), but had had the misfortune to slam his head against the corner of a desk on his way down. He hadn't been knocked out, but as he got shakily to his feet, he had felt something warm and wet began to trickle down his face, and he heard the gasps and screams of his classmates and teacher. Needless to say, he had been immediately carried (despite his protests that he could walk) to the nurse, who had patched him up quickly and kindly. Of course, the school had called his dad to come pick him up, and so Sherman had waited, head bandaged and previously-white shirt grimly stained with red, for Mr. Peabody.

And Sherman would never forget the expression on Mr. Peabody's face as he first laid eyes on his injured son. He had strode quickly into the room, features already tight in obvious worry and concern. And then he had seen Sherman, and his face had filled with a hundred emotions at once - fear, worry, sadness, stress, guilt, horror, pain. That one expression had said a million things to Sherman. _I love you. I care for you. I need you to be safe. I need you to be okay. I can't stand it when you're hurt. I love you, I love you, I love you. _

But Sherman, for his part, felt only relief as his father rushed to him and embraced him carefully, gently. His pain vanished almost entirely. Mr. Peabody was there; everything would be fine. And as his father held him close, murmuring words of comfort, Sherman suddenly realized something pretty fantastic about "I love you".

Sometimes it didn't need saying.


End file.
